


Harvest of my Summer Joys

by Ardatli



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Alternate Universe – No Powers, Background Eli/Kate/Tommy love triangle, Darker!Billy, M/M, Nate has his tech, biological Maximoff twins, for Queen and country, mentioned Nate Richards/Cassie Lang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Permiffion of Her Majesty: <i>This Afternoon, The Spanish Tragedie: OR, Hieronimo is mad againe.</i></p>
<p>Presented by the BISHOP'S MEN, with Nathaniel RICHARDS in the role of Don Hieronimo, Knight Marshal of Spain AND Theodore ALTMAN acting the part of Don Lorenzo, As it hath been fundry times publikely Acted at the BLACKFRIAR'S.<br/>Doors to be opened at Half past Two, begin at Three. Pit 1p, Balconie 2p.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harvest of my Summer Joys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Altheak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altheak/gifts).



> Written for the Young Avengers Reverse Big Bang, for the 1602 Fanmix by AltheaK. With many, many thanks to caterpills, for beta-reading. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Mild heads-up for period-appropriate attitudes and language, specifically: non-shaming reference to a woman’s virginity as her ‘virtue’; reference to a POC as a Moor; casual use of the word Jew as a descriptor. 
> 
> \--
> 
> The image on the playbill is taken from the original frontispiece for the Spanish Tragedie, 1615 edition. While no playbills from the Elizabethan era have survived to present day, we have enough information on the content that I was able to fake up something plausible. Playbills for tragedies were printed in red, and others in black.
> 
> \--
> 
> **  
> [Playlist on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXW3yGJFlVGySksDJ6vx9eIFsfMN-5VBk)  
> **

 

 

“Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes:

  To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes;

  For here though death hath end their misery,

  I’ll there begin their endless tragedy.”

Revenge spoke his final lines into the inn-yard’s open space to roars of approval from the gathered audience. The noise swelled, thrilling and uplifting even the staid observers in the upper balconies, who deigned to press their hands together in genteel applause. Late afternoon sunlight shaded the world in orange and gold, the dust kicked up by the crowd glinting in the sunbeams and coating William’s boots with gray. He watched until the sound died away and Revenge was hustled off the stage before beginning to force his way through to the stage doors.

He was far easier to pick out in the crowd here than he was at home, his fine clothes and velvet cloak more fitting for Whitehall, or taking in the show from the higher balconies at Blackfriar’s, where the Bishop’s Men more commonly played. That was fine.

It was common enough for a young man of means to take an interest in something beyond the affairs of the court, whether it be drinking, sport or art, and he was not attempting to make himself inconspicuous today. His appreciation for the theatre was well-known; it was more important by far to keep the specific reasons well-hidden.

Will made it to the entry to the inn itself, throwing elbows at those who pressed too close. He reached the heavy iron-traced oak door, opened it and slipped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to catch up to the close-dark of the inn’s back hall, the narrow space made tighter by the piles of scene and property that lay haphazardly against the walls.

“Afternoon, Will,” Cassandra greeted him with as she approached, her eyes sparkling with barely-concealed amusement. She had a man’s cloak folded over her arm and her skirt hung close about her, only a roll keeping it out from her slim hips. There was no space in the backstage for the broad wheeled farthingales of court, not in a building this size. It was not the atmosphere that drew him here tonight, to this back-country inn miles away from home.

“Cass,” he replied with a flash of a hopeful smile. There were others moving through the hall and he dropped a hand to her waist where her bodies nipped it in, pressed her gently toward the turn in the corridor. He drew her around the corner and she went willingly, casting a glance back over her shoulder at two of the boys who passed them by. Their heads tipped together in whispers as they passed Will and Cassandra, adding fuel to the gossip that already spread.  

Her hair gleamed golden even in the shadows, coiled and puffed about her face. He leaned in close; to any passing it would seem like they were a wooing couple, his hand resting lightly on her hip. “Can you make yourself scarce for half an hour?”

“Only that?” Cassandra teased him with a laugh. “Will! You’re losing your touch.”

“Hush yourself,” he scolded, but could not find it in him to chide her. “I’ll never hear the end of it if I delay company business any longer than that. I’ll steal whatever precious minutes I may.”

She tipped her head up with that girlish smile and look of mischief that had become so welcomingly familiar over the last two years. “Go. He’s already upstairs.”

\--

Theodore was half out of costume by the time Will bounded up the stairs to the tiny room at the back of the second floor.

Theo always made sure he had a room to himself these days, however small it might have to be. It was part of his contract now, which made the property master roll his eyes and complain about expense. It was a small matter when compared to the costs of running a company of players, especially in seasons when they travelled more than they played at home. But Elijah always seemed to be happiest when he was complaining about something.

Will would take it as his own good fortune. There was no-one in the hall to see him enter; he slipped inside and threw fast the bolt, locked the door securely behind him. His hat, half-cape, swordbelt; those he unslung from about his shoulder and waist and left on the chair.

Theodore was seated at the dressing-table against the wall, straddling the low wooden stool with his boots half-unlaced and his doublet already thrown across the bed. He glanced up at Will’s entrance and flashed him a brilliant but distracted smile. His face was still half-pale with chalk and dark with cork, the bowl of water before him muddy with removèd colour. The window was open and Will crossed the room in three easy strides to bolt the shutters fast against the slowly setting sun. Only then, with the room half-shaded into dark, could he turn and relax. His shoulders dropped and his eagerness revealed itself upon his face and in the rapid thrumming of his pulse.

There was something magnetic in watching Theo disrobe, his shirt hanging loose about his shoulders and falling in sweat-damp folds to the narrow of his waist. Every swipe of the linen exposed more of his own beauty, his blue eyes luminous in the looking glass, seeking and finding William’s reflected gaze.

He shed his character like a skin with every layer of colour and cloth that he removed, in the way he set aside Lorenzo’s curled lip and scorn. The weary lines of battle and age fell away as the black smudging streaked across the cloth and the smile came back into his eyes. The rings and pearl drop went into a box on his table, to be replaced with the small gold hoop that gleamed in his ear whenever he was not on stage.

Don Lorenzo was put back in his cases and boxes for the night; once more there was only Theodore, only William.

“Let me help you,” Will said, the first words spoken since he’d entered. He perched on the edge of the dressing table, straddling Theodore’s legs between his own. A little white still streaked his face, a line that ran along the edge of his jaw up to his ear. Will took up the cloth and dipped it in the water, the linen cool against his heated skin. He wrung it out, the water pooling between his fingers and dripping down into the bowl. Theodore’s mouth was still flushed pink, a stain that would linger until late in the evening. The balconies saw that painted exaggeration of a face, an effect meant for distance. The gleam of wet where he’d licked his lip, the flush rising natural in his cheeks; those were private, close, and meant for Will alone.

His jaw was strong and clean-shaven, that firm-set line so easily softened with a smile. Will drew the cloth along it to remove the last of the stage paint, and Theodore shivered under the gentleness of his touch. His shirt was the one he died in every day, the red-streaked cuffs and goat’s blood stain across his breast familiar from each time he’d played this role, the repeated afternoons that Will had sat in the audience, admiring, _wanting_  from a careful distance.

And now, that broad back, those shoulders, the sturdy column of his throat - they were Will’s, to touch and taste and press his lips against. His eyes were a shade of blue that no artist could name nor yet define; they were the last things that William saw in the darkness before he fell asleep, the first things on his mind upon waking. He could drown in that colour, and die a happy man.

“You’re distracted today,” Theodore was laughing at him, his face now mostly clean. He leaned back and stripped the linen from his body, pitching it haphazardly toward the trunk that sat open in the corner. He was golden where the sun had touched him, paler from wrist to throat to waist. He knew full well what the sight of all that skin would do to Will; how he would react to the shadows and curves of his muscles, and Will could resist no longer. He dropped the cloth unceremoniously and slid his hands into the golden ringlets sticking damply to Theodore’s neck.

He pulled Theo up close and pressed his mouth down, meeting him halfway. The stool rocked a little beneath the pressure of his foot. Theodore slid his hands up William’s thighs, holding him steady with the wide breadth of his palms. The calluses on his fingers caught lightly on the wool of William’s hose, dragging the fabric gently against his skin.

Theodore was hot against his lips, his skin salty with sweat from his exertions on the stage. It sparked on Will’s tongue when he kissed along the line of Theo’s jaw, sucked at the small soft place beneath and behind his ear. Theodore made a broken noise, and Will scraped his teeth there just to hear that sound again. He leaned over further, bent in until he was all but pressed up against Theodore’s naked chest. The wool and bombast of his doublet blocked the heat of his body, but Theodore’s fingers at the buttons would make short work of that barrier.

Theodore sucked on Will’s lower lip, scraped his teeth against the tender skin inside. He pulled away with a little gasp when Will groaned.

“Did anyone see you?” Theodore asked, urgency in his voice. He pulled Will’s doublet open and Will shrugged it off, the soft linen shirt with its blackworked cuffs and collar following next.

“Not in the hall,” he answered, and this time when he kissed Theodore there was nothing between them, only skin on skin down to their waists. He slid forward until his thighs were braced on Theodore’s, his arms about Theo’s shoulders, his hands splayed out against his back.

It burned, this need for secrecy, when all he wanted in the world was to proclaim this man to be his. His in body, heart and soul, his for life and through death, and wherever souls went after- Though if he did, they would discover the truth of the afterlife sooner rather than later, a fate best avoided however much the secrecy curdled in his gut.

This, though, they could have; a stolen half-hour while the property master struck his play and the players readied the wagons for a night of travel. “And better if they did, downstairs,” Will added, Theodore’s thighs snug between his. He squeezed his knees together briefly, pressed them closer to feel the solid muscle between them. Theo responded with a roll of his hips that pressed his prick up against William’s thigh and stoked his already-inflamed need. “Gossip has it that my desire is for Cassandra. She donates her virtue to our cause.”

Theo laughed, the sound a dark, kind rumble. He dropped his hand to palm against Will’s half-hard prick, the pressure a faint promise of what would come. “She traded her virtue for Nathaniel’s long ago,” he mouthed at Will’s ear, ran the tip of his tongue along the ridge, sending shivers down the back of William’s neck.  

“A fair exchange. I only make him a cuckold in words,” Will promised, tilting his head to catch Theo’s mouth again, to nip and suck at the lush swell of his bottom lip. “The rest of me is yours.”

“Good,” Theo replied firmly. He cupped Will’s prick though the layers of fabric, stroked firmly root to tip, again and _again._ Will whimpered low in his throat and Theodore’s eyes shaded dark, his pupils wide. “I am not fond of sharing.” He kissed him again and again, mouth sliding hot against Will’s, before he pulled back in breathless wonder. “Did you see the show today?” he asked. He tipped his face up, hopeful and genuine, waiting for Will’s verdict as though one man’s words _mattered_.

That was so often the case with Theodore, though; Will needed to remember that above all else. Words cut and cured him in equal measure, Will’s perfect, self-doubting player.

It was a responsibility too large for him, some days. Here, though, and now, with their hands stroking and caressing, hips rolling together in easy, teasing motion and their mouths the barest breath apart, adoration came easily.

“You were magnificent,” Will murmured, punctuating his praise with sweet and lingering kisses to Theodore’s mouth, his jaw, the perfect line of his cheekbone. “The best you’ve been since London. Your ‘Lorenzo’ is at once brilliant and terrifying.”

“You disagree with the critics, then?” Theodore returned his kisses, one hand tangling in William’s hair, his eyes vulnerable though he tried to seem nonchalant and amused by it all. “I’m not ‘too pretty’ to play a villain?”

And there was the crux of today’s concerns, and one he could answer with easy truths. “Quite the opposite,” Will assured him, and smoothed his hands down over Theodore’s naked chest. He flicked his thumbnail across a pale pink nipple. It hardened and Theodore whimpered, his hips lifting up against Will faster and harder in reaction. Will ground down against him, taking all that Theodore could give. Heat pooled low in his gut, suffusing everything with the orange and red glow of his desire, but it was a fire he could keep banked a moment longer. “It makes things all the more effective,” Will continued, half-breathless, stroking the pad of his thumb across Theodore’s nipple again and kissing the gasps away from his mouth. “Who could believe that such beauty could conceal such treachery?”

“I’d rather play the hero,” Theo admitted softly. “Of any face I could put on, I like those the best.”

 “I like _yours_ better than any mask or masque,” Will returned. That had been the right answer, for Theodore’s eyes lit up from within with the fire of a thousand stars, a sun burning bright and searing Will’s skin from his bones from the sheer joy in it. He would give a great many things if only to be the cause of Theodore’s pleasure and happiness, to make him smile like that, as though they were the two brightest things in the world. .

He slid his hands round Will’s hips, grasping him tightly and lifting in one smooth motion. Will laughed, half with surprise and half with a thrill of pleasure. He grabbed at Theo’s shoulders to keep himself from falling, clutching tightly to the expanse of smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers. He was pressed up against the wall a second later, the stone cool against his back and Theodore hot against his chest, his arms locked tight about Theodore’s neck, and his legs curling up about Theodore’s hips to hold himself in place.

“So you’re saying that my face is not heroic?” Theodore teased, his laughter light and carefree as he rolled up into Will. He splayed his hands out against the swell of William’s buttocks and worked his clever, maddening mouth against the skin of William’s throat hard enough to sting, to ache and leave a mark that would linger there for days below the collar of his shirt.   

“You can be _my_ hero despite that face,” Will laughed, breathless. He was achingly hard within his breeches, his hips rocking up against Theodore’s stomach with desperate hitches that he could not, did not want to control. “You shall be Achilles and I your Patroclus, and together we shall rewrite Homer in our image.”

His prick rubbed against the inside of his breeches and the friction chafed. “I need your hands,” he begged. He felt utterly shameless this way, pleading, his head tipped back against the wall to give Theodore access, his legs locked around Theo’s hips, rubbing against him like a bitch in heat or a boy on the cusp of manhood being touched for the first time. “Your mouth, your cock, _anything_.”

Theodore’s answer was to loosen the buttons on William’s trunkhose and shove them down his thighs. The cool air was a shock on his skin, the heat of Theodore’s other palm on his hip an answering balm. Will let go with one hand and balanced with the other as he fought with the lacing on Theodore’s breeches.

“Had I known your affections would be so easily won, I would have approached you long before I did,” Theo laughed at him, his clever, wonderful fingers sliding down to cup Will’s bollocks, roll them between his fingers. The pressure sped up his spine like a lightning bolt, igniting the fire that burned in his lower back.

“Who approached whom?” Will asked archly. He fought to bite back the hiss and keening noise that burst from his throat when Theodore wrapped his hand around his prick, the hard length of it aching and curving up toward his stomach. “I could always begin playing the coy pricktease now, if you’d prefer; dress and take my leave- _mmph._ ”

Theo licked into his mouth. He made a soft sweet sound when William got his prick free and grasped his length, took two fingers to slide his foreskin down below the ridge. He toyed with it, rolled his hand back and forth to stroke Theodore with the slick glide of his own skin. Theo thrust up into his hand with vigour, and Will met his hunger with a tighter grip and murmurs of delight.

They rocked together, their hands closed hard between them, once, twice, then- William’s grip on Theodore’s shoulder began to slide, the beads of sweat and motion of their bodies shaking free his grasp.

Theodore buried his face in William’s shoulder, seemingly unaware, but his hips jerked fiercely. Will slid sideways, grabbed for purchase, let go his hold and fell.

Theodore tumbled down with him, barely catching himself with his hands against the wall, his knee between William’s thighs. One of them had yelped, Will could not be certain who, and the rapid acceleration of his heart could not be blamed entirely on their activity.

He opened his eyes, stared into Theodore’s for a breath, then two, his trunkhose tangled around his thighs. Theodore caught the weight of his body, his hands braced against the wall and arms trembling with new effort.

It was ludicrous, _ridiculous_ , and he burst into shaky and breathless laughter as he got his feet beneath him, Theodore following a moment later.

William kissed him as they laughed, straightened and leaned his shoulders back against the wall. Theodore pushed his hose further down then pressed him back into the stone, sliding one leg between his thighs again. He nosed at Will’s jaw, his chin, his throat, hands on either side of him and his shoulders still shaking with humour. “There are easier ways to get out of making love to me, you know,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to Will’s and his cock flushing dark as he hardened again against Will’s hip.

“Never.”

Theo had his hands on Will’s hips, pressed him around until he faced the wall. He went, letting himself be manhandled, Theodore’s strength always so easy to fall into and obey. The stone wall was rough against his fingers when he pressed his hands against it and rested his forehead there upon them. Theodore stepped in close, pressed against him, the hard line of his prick sliding against the cleft of Will’s buttocks. Will arched, rocked back into the contact, his cock bouncing up against his belly and leaving a glistening line of fluid strung across his skin.  

Theodore touched him everywhere but where he craved it most, ran his hands along Will’s chest, pinched at his nipples until they pebbled and stood erect. His touch was tingling and fire as he stroked down Will’s sides. He cupped the angles of Will’s hips, rolled the pads of his thumbs along the trail of dark hair that ran from down to the root of his cock.   

“If you don’t do something soon, I’ll be forced to take matters into my own hands,” Will complained over his shoulder.

“I could always let you go,” Theodore teased. “If you’re absolutely determined to fall over today.”

He needn’t have worried, though his jibe had been made half in jest; the hard thrust of Theodore’s cock against his lower back, the way his breath lingered, hot and needy, on Will’s neck, all of it boiled his blood and left him trembling. Theodore was already reaching for a familiar vial on the dressing table – oil, unperfumed and slick – and he set his free hand to span across Will’s hip and press him more firmly into place.

He laid sucking kisses along the back of Will’s neck, the heat of his lips replaced with the sting of his teeth, then the hot swipe of his tongue to soothe the injured flesh. Will dropped his head forward and bared his nape, the suction and the press sparking along his skin and burrowing deeper, sending snakes of fire down along his spine. Theodore bit at the join of his shoulder, sweat slicking the skin of his chest where he moved against Will’s back.

A light and teasing touch at the entrance to his body sent Will arching again, spreading his legs wider on pure instinct and need alone. One finger pressed inside, sliding easily with the oil, and he tensed despite himself. Theodore paused in his movements, ran his tongue along the knobs of Will’s spine and mouthed at his neck, tongued the sweet and sensitive spot behind his ear, sucked Will’s earlobe into his mouth and bit down lightly with just the edge of teeth.

Will breathed out, let himself fall limp, his cock and balls hanging thick and heavy between his legs. “Good,” Theodore murmured, and slipped his finger deeper. “So good, Will. You have no idea how good you feel.”

The stretch and pain gave way to pleasure after a moment and Will rolled his hips in experiment. He gasped with the motion and Theodore added another finger, thick and deft, stroking inside as he opened Will’s body for further intrusion. That was good, better, but no longer enough, and Will slid back, pushed back to get more of what he needed, that pressure deep inside that rolled and stroked against the heat, that pressed upon the fire burning inside him. His prick jumped, strained, ached for release and yet-

“Now,” he urged, pushing back on Theodore’s fingers in search of rhythm and that sweet elusive fulfillment. “Now or not at all.”

Theodore’s fingers dug into his hip and then Will was empty, empty and forsaken as Theodore withdrew entirely. Tears sprang to his eyes at the loss, but then Theodore pressed inside, his cock thicker even than his fingers. The stone of the wall scraped under his fingernails and he clenched for purchase.

Then glory and heaven and all the saints weeping, Theodore was covering him, chest pressed to Will’s back, his hands spanning Will’s hips, and Will was split open upon his cock, thick and deep and wild.   

Will braced himself against the wall for better purchase, thrust back as Theodore rocked forward. They were two halves come together to make a whole, their motion so easy and familiar. His body thrummed with lightning, all focussed on the fierce stretch and movement in his core, every stroke of Theodore’s cock rolling over a fire that burned inside him. He was wet and leaking, hard and desperate, thrusting against the air before him and onto Theodore behind.

Theodore wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer, their bodies melded together. He leaned forward, let William take his weight and dropped his other hand to wrap around Will’s prick. There, and that, and he needed nothing more; the tight slick heat of Theodore’s fist, his thumb rubbing just under the head of his prick, the way Theodore moved inside him, his pace punishing and as desperate as Will’s own hunger.

His body curled in, drew up impossibly tight, and he took his pleasure, crying out as he splashed hot and sticky over his own stomach, Theodore’s hand, the wall.

Theodore dropped his hands back to Will’s hips to hold him steady. He panted, his lips hot on the back of Will’s neck, his hips rocking in tight one last time before he too stilled. He pressed so closely that he could almost slip beneath Will’s skin and become another part of him, a thousand points of contact, skin to skin, and his cock pulsing deep inside Will’s body.

He came silently, as ever, burying his face in Will’s hair as his limbs relaxed and muscles sagged. He collapsed, an arm tight around Will’s waist, their chests heaving in concert.

It was a minute, perhaps more, before Will could find the wherewithal to move, another few before Theodore relented and released his hold. He was empty when Theodore slid out of him, half-soft and sticky with drying oil and the evidence of their spent pleasure. Will breathed deeply, turned to kiss him, let the taste and smell of carnal sweat and satisfaction linger in his nose and mouth a moment longer.

The clean water in the jug was cool on his skin, the drops running over Will’s hands as he wrung out the cloth. He washed slowly, in no hurry to lose the last remnants of their pleasure, of Theodore’s marks upon his skin. The bruises would linger, below the confines of his doublet and his ruff, secrets pressed into his flesh in red and pink and purple until they too faded and were gone.

Soft lips caressed the back of his neck as though Theodore had been reading his thoughts, the quiet melancholy that sat below the pleasure-haze. He turned to capture Theo’s mouth with his, lean back into the fleeting warmth of his arms. Theodore snaked his arms about Will’s waist and squeezed gently, his palm flat against the bare skin of Will’s stomach.

He pulled away after a moment, crossing the small room to find himself a clean shirt. “I should ask before you go to Nate and Elijah,” Theodore’s question was muffled as he pulled the garment over his head. “What news from court?”

And with that shift their interlude was over, the business of the world settling back into place about them. The noises from the street and the inn-yard filtered in through the closed shutters, the calls of the fishwives, the raucous jeers of children’s games, the lowing of the livestock being driven to market. All of it was so prosaic and normal, a sobering antidote to the intimate circle of their world in the tiny room.

Will relaced his hose and shrugged his shirt back over his head, cool now from the air. “Her Majesty takes more time alone,” he replied. That and the eternal mystery of the succession were all that anyone spoke about, these days. “Her council says that she is as hale and well as ever.” Doublet next, the quilted layers settling over his shoulders as easily as any armour.

Theodore looked up in mild surprise, arcing a golden eyebrow as he fastened the buttons at his cuffs and throat. “You think otherwise?” he prompted, reading the truth of it in William’s voice.

“My father spends more hours at Whitehall than he has in years, and his evenings in his books and charts.” He was the best among the Queen’s doctors, and the most vulnerable, for all that he was one of her Jews. They were not of an old family nor did he have another patron at the court should she dismiss him, or worse, succumb. That was the fate of any who tended to royalty, of course, who had the honour of such intimacy with the body natural of the body politic. And yet understanding their position did not prevent the frisson of fear that lingered in each of Doctor Kaplan’s sons.

“She spends hours sitting in the dark, claiming headache, or a need for solitude.” He lowered his voice, for even to voice such suspicions could be considered treason, but- “I saw her at Middlesex, a month ago now. She did not look well,” he finished.

Theodore’s frown settled onto his face, clear blue eyes clouded over in thought. “And she still refuses to name a successor. I suppose so, or we should have heard it even in the towns. What is the latest whisper of events to come upon her death?” He looked up, then, and this time his glance was knowing. 

“There are rumours that she plans to put Lady Arabella under watch at Hardwick; that would take care of that loose end quite neatly. But beyond that; Cecil the younger negotiates with James of Scotland,” Will shrugged, this secret treason easier to share for its lack of novelty. “If she does not name another heir before she dies, then Cecil’s will be done. The Queen’s men will become the King’s men, and life, I presume, will continue much in the same way as it had before.” The buckle of his belt slid easily into place, his sword next, into the frog that swung at his hip. “He’s a Protestant at least; this succession will not be the same as the last two.”

Neither of them had yet been alive to see either of great Henry’s daughters rise to power, Catholic Mary with her northern armies, to send Queen Jane to the Tower and the block, or Elizabeth, beloved princess and Protestant hope, sweeping in from all-but-exile to claim her throne.

“Let there be no pyres,” Theodore completed his thought, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of William’s head, “and I shall be satisfied.” His words were a sobering reminder, a chill lifting the hairs on William’s arms if he thought about it too directly. Theodore’s mother had fled the Holy Roman duchy of Brabant twenty-two years ago, ahead of the approaching Catholic armies. Great with child and her husband’s body broken on enemy swords, she had found refuge and a new beginning on England’s more welcoming shores.

For the end result of that terrible happenstance, at least, William would be grateful. In the days when all else seemed impossible or bleak, Theodore’s affection – his _love_ – was one precious thing that he could allow himself to have.

Theodore pulled on his doublet, dark against the white of his clean shirt. The leather was scuffed a little at the elbows from constant wear, paler marks against the pine-deep green. It snugged against his back, a second skin, the stitching picking out a pattern of careful lines that drew down to the narrow of his waist. They had only just been satisfied and William felt the familiar surge of want again; to strip the doublet from him, to kiss and taste and press his mouth against his bared skin, to leave dark marks upon him that would never, ever fade.

“I heard that James prefers Jonson to Kyd or Shakespeare,” Theodore continued easily, though he caught William’s hungry gaze and returned it with a heated look all of his own. “If that’s the case, maybe we won’t have to play King John again.”

Will set to buttoning his doublet with reluctance, to easy conversation about the playhouse with much less grief. “What do you have against John?” he asked, and he could resist the gibe that followed. “You made an excellent Bastard.”

He received the raised eyebrow and snort from Theodore that he had expected, and flashed a smile back in response. “Har. Thank you. Because it’s a terrible play, that’s why; poorly written and irritating to stage.  I’m just as happy to see the back of it.”

“I’m happy to see the back of _you_.” Will stood and abandoned his buttons half-done. This was one of so few chances they had, and he took it, seizing Theodore’s hand and pulling him in for another kiss. He lingered there, lips moving gently against the sweetness of Theodore’s mouth, and Theo’s hand flattened against the small of his back to keep him close.

A key turned in the lock, lifting the latch.

They sprang apart, though their rumpled clothes and the scent that still lingered in the air would leave little doubt as to their previous activities-

Will’s hand dropped to his sword, a glance at Theodore, then at the door.

It opened, but only partly, enough for a voice to penetrate the thick tension of the room. “It’s Elijah. I trust the pair of you are decent?”

“As we ever are,” Theodore replied, letting out a held breath that Will could all but feel.

The relief that swept through him left Will’s shoulders slumping, and Theodore dropped down to sit on the edge of the rope-sprung bed and hunt for his boots.

Eli stepped inside and made the door fast behind him, barely sparing a glance for their state of undress. He nodded to Theodore, granting him only a clipped “well-played today,” before turning to fix his attention on William. “What message from London?”

“Why do you presume I bring a message?” Will replied, his mood too good to let Eli’s single-mindedness dissuade him. “Perhaps I am only here for the company, and the pleasure of the theatre.”

Eli raised an eyebrow, dark against his dark skin, and waited. Will patted down his doublet and slid the packets from the hidden pocket sewn into the lining.

First, the letter from Katherine, the wax seal impressed with the fletched arrow she had taken for her badge years ago. That vanished into Elijah’s jerkin, to be opened later on in private. The second, a single page of paper only, folded small. The red drops of wax had been impressed with the blank round shape that bore no image; that was mark enough in and of itself. Eli slid his finger beneath to break the seal, a frown beginning to play over his lips.

“My Lord Salisbury sends his regards,” Will began, more for Theodore’s benefit than for Eli’s.

Eli nodded, his eyes tracking the neat lines of text before he spoke. “He has assurances from Scotland; all will continue as it has been.” That much fit with what William had gleaned for himself. There was no need to specify; these days, there was only one Scot who mattered. “And he has work for us.”

“What is the plan this time?” Theodore stepped up behind William, dressed and ready now, his arms folded across his chest. He had not put on a new face, but something in his expression had shifted nevertheless. He was an enforcer now, a fighter and a finely-forged weapon, the soft edges of the lover fading away.

Eli glanced up and folded the paper small again, his fingers moving deftly as he spoke. “We are to continue on to Oxford. Catesby sold his house at Chastleton; his Honour wants to be sure the man’s not planning something stupid.”

“And if he is?”

“Stop him.”

Eli’s gaze was distant when he turned to Will, plans and necessities ticking already down the lists in his mind. “You’ll take a message back?”

Will finished buttoning his doublet, and shook his head. “Send it with one of the boys. This time I go with you.” Theodore’s eyes widened at that, a flash of something that resembled hope welling up within them. Will returned the look with a quick bright smile, and reached for his hat and cape. “Thomas has gone on ahead; he should be there by now.”

He did not miss Eli’s narrowed eyes and the way his back went rigid, as though he were once more a soldier and not a player of parts.

It mattered little, in the end. Even if Katherine, daughter of the Bishop of Chester, could someday be convinced to choose between her Moor and her Jew, her father would permit marriage to neither. She was as out of reach for both as the hunting hawks she flew, and just as deadly.  

“Kate has business at Richmond.” He checked upon his daggers, home in their hidden sheaths; all was well. They were as much a part of his body now as the sword on his hip, the stiletto-sharp pin for his hat, the garrotte wire tucked safely into the hem of his half-cape. The rest of his preparations remained outside, the vials with the apothecary’s potions sewn into the lining of his saddlebags.

They were his best weapons, just as the Bishop’s Men were Salisbury’s in his turn. The Queen’s spymaster had turned them all into his arrows, poison-tipped and deadly, ready for flight.

Will, Thomas and Katherine had been tiptoeing along that path before Nathaniel had appeared, their connections, youth and talent making each one useful in their own way. Elijah, Cassandra and Theodore had come with Nathaniel to that first fateful meeting. They seven had bound themselves together in the shadows of a crumbling, ancient abbey, sworn their oaths and shared their secrets.

They had been scattered and disorganized, each one alone a lost and unimportant thing. Nathaniel had given them a purpose and direction: protect the Queen. Smooth England’s path. Brace for the oncoming storm.

It was easier in numbers. They stood together as a bulwark, strong against the unknown future.

“There is a great deal to do.” Will swung his cape about his shoulder, tied it fast beneath his arm. Courtier, spy, deliverer of the Queen’s silent justice; he stood proud, strong and unashamed. “And few enough hands to manage it. This time, you may have need of me.”

**Author's Note:**

> 'Corset' is a nineteenth-century term only; prior to that, upper body shapers were known as 'stays,' and before that, in the sixteenth century, the very first boned shapers were called 'pairs of bodies,' or 'bodies,' which flattened rather than lifted the breasts. See http://www.marariley.net/stays/staystimeline.htm for a nifty visual timeline, with extant examples. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Queen Elizabeth I used all the resources at her disposal to cement her sometimes-disputed right to the throne of England. One of those resources was her spymasters â first Walsingham, who was succeeded after his death by Cecil, Lord Salisbury, who went on to become King Jamesâ spymaster in turn. Both men ran brutally efficient and extensive spy networks, with their goal being to ensure the security of the Queen. 
> 
> Travelling players had freedom of travel in a time when vagrancy could get you arrested, and they had access to people spanning wide ranges of social classes â the perfect combination to make them useful as sources of information... and as centres of espionage. 
> 
> \--
> 
> The Spanish Tragedy, by Thomas Kyd, was an English play about murder and revenge was extremely popular in the late 1500s and early 1600s, and English actors even toured the Continent with a production. Lorenzo, Teddyâs role, is a sneaky villain from a similar sort of mold as Shakespeareâs Iago, a witty, manipulated and manipulative figure. It all ends rather bloodily for just about everybody. 
> 
> \--
> 
> The handover from Elizabeth I to James I/VI went extremely smoothly, historically, especially considering what had happened in the past. The monarchy in the sixteenth century went through a series of dramatic successions which incorporated a vast amount of religious conflict, as the throne passed from 
> 
> * Henry VIII (Catholic under the Pope -> âCatholicâ under Henry) to  
> * (1545) His young son Edward VI (devoutly Protestant reformer), then to  
> * (1553) Edwardâs older half-sister Mary I (devout Catholic, restored England to the papacy and purged/martyred/exiled reformers), and finally to  
> * (1560) Maryâs younger half-sister Elizabeth I (equivocating Christian/most Protestant, split from Rome, purged/exiled/martyred rebellious Catholics before attempting a policy of toleration.)  
> Compared to all that, handing the kingdom over to a cousin and fellow Protestant (even if he happened to be a Scot) in 1603 was a piece of cake. 
> 
> \--
> 
> FOR THE RECORD, Mary I executed far fewer people than any of her father, brother or sister, even accounting for the shorter duration of her reign. The reason she is remembered in popular history as Bloody Mary rather than Englandâs first crowned Queen Regnant is because she was on the losing side of Englandâs religious wars. The victors write the books, and affirming Elizabethâs legitimate claim to the throne by necessity meant taking potshots at Maryâs. 
> 
> From Gerald Warner, at the Daily Telegraph: (bolding mine)
> 
> â **Mary I** burned **284** Protestant heretics, according to John Foxeâs Book of Martyrs, which is unlikely to be an underestimate. Estimates of the number of executions carried out by **Henry VIII** range from **57,000 to the 72,000** claimed in Raphael Holinshedâs Chronicles (the mass murder following the Catholic rising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace should be taken into account). The troops of his son **Edward VI** massacred more than **5,500** Cornish Catholics in the wake of the Prayer Book Rebellion. **Elizabeth I** was more sparing of formal executions, though St Margaret Clitheroe was pressed to death at York and Mary Queen of Scots beheaded; but **the butchery in Ireland was ... on a scale that was not exceeded until Stalin in the 1930s.** â
> 
> For a much better overview of where historians currently stand on Mary I, I strongly recommend the (highly accessible/easy read/non-jargony) biography [Mary Tudor](%E2%80%9D), by Judith M. Richards. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Lady Arabella Stuart was a cousin of Elizabeth’s, and considered a possible rival for the throne. She outlived Elizabeth to become a favourite at the court of James I/VI. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Ben Jonson would eventually become the court playwright for James I/VI, designing and creating breathtaking theatrical pageants for James and his court’s entertainment. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Robert Catesby was a Catholic nobleman arrested and fined for his role in the failed Essex rebellion of 1601, when he came under surveillance. He was later executed for leading the failed Gunpowder Plot of 5 November 1605, which would, had it succeeded, have blown up the English House of Lords and all the sitting members of parliament. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Clerical marriage was legalized in England briefly under King Edward VI, repealed by Mary I, and finally permanently legalized by Elizabeth I again in 1571.


End file.
